


we all look for heaven and we put our love first

by outofcases (hockeycaptains)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexuality, Cisgirl!Zayn, Coming Out, F/F, Harry Styles is a giant flirt but she just wants to hold Zayn's hand & kiss her a little, Nick is still a radio host; just a less famous one, OT5 Friendship, Partying, Sexual Tension, cisgirl!Harry, coming to terms with sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/outofcases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s a moment that’s so fragile Harry’s afraid to breathe and shatter it, their faces close together, Zayn looking at her like Harry is frightening, or lovely, or something she doesn’t know how to handle.  Harry wants Zayn to kiss her, and then she thinks, like all the loose parts in her brain tumbling into place at once, <em>oh</em>."</p><p>Zayn moves in next door, and Harry realizes a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we all look for heaven and we put our love first

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KatnissPotter1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatnissPotter1/gifts).



> Your prompts were so wonderful, and this one was a blast to write. I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> I would like to give my endless thanks to Hayley for the art for this fic (found on tumblr!), Kate for the amazing feedback, Sarah for the encouragement, Aimee for being the best cheerleader, Bek for commiserating with me, and Maggie for putting on such a lovely exchange. It takes a village, folks.
> 
> Finally, title is from Lana del Rey's "This is What Makes Us Girls" which is a tune, and it also features later in the fic.

Harry’s pretty sure this glitter is never going to come out of her hair, and she couldn’t care less.

This is easily the best party of the term, and she’s celebrating by enjoying herself as much as she possibly can. She’s wearing her favorite short shorts, her hair is all thick curls tumbling down her back, and she can’t stop smiling. This is maybe shaping up to be the best night of her life, and that’s only half the alcohol talking. She feels as light as the bubbles in her champagne. “Louis!” she yells happily, a bit of her drink sloshing over the side of her cup as she waves her friend down. “You made it!”

Louis laughs, reaching up to fix his sloppy fringe. “Looks like I have some catching up to do,” he says, holding up Harry where she’s essentially hanging off of him, giggly and loud and smiling.

She twists her head around so she can look up at him. “You do. I’m _so drunk_ ,” she tells him seriously, and he nods back, equally somber. Her flower crown starts to slip off of her head, and she frowns, eyes going crossed as she tries to evaluate the damage without moving. Louis rights it for her, leaning back and setting it to rest on the crown of her head. She thanks him, back to grinning, and pecks him on the cheek.

“Harry!” she hears behind her, “Come over here!” It’s the radio crew, most of them already dispersing.

She looks at Louis apologetically, but he just laughs and waves her off. “I need to get myself a drink, I do. You go. S’not like you don’t see me every day anyway.”

Harry debates pouting before deciding that Louis’ explanation is reasonable. “Love you,” she says, mostly over her shoulder as she leaves to catch the rest of them before they leave, “make good choices!”

Louis’ eye roll is probably visible from outer space. “Go have fun, you giant, bloody hypocrite!” he calls after her, and then he disappears into the kitchen.

Harry barrels into Pixie from the side, hugging her tightly. “Hi,” she drawls through a mouthful of hairspray, “missed you!”

Pixie pats her distractedly, probably because it’s only been about six hours, and Harry hums to herself a bit, swaying with the music. She’s tempted to hop up onto the table and swing her hips around, but she doesn’t think any amount of alcohol will make her more graceful, and she has enough sense to know that she doesn’t want to crack her head open.

Someone bumps into her from behind, and she almost faceplants. “Whoa!” says a surprised voice, and she’s immediately pulled back up. “Are you okay?”

“Fine!” she answers quickly, turning to face her attacker. He looks very innocent, big brown eyes wide with concern. Not her type, but cute. She considers flirting for half a second before deciding against it. “Are _you_ okay?” she asks, and she’s proud of herself for barely slurring at all.

The boy just looks at her, eyebrows furrowing. “Yeah, ‘course. Are you?”

And now they’re just talking in circles. Harry swivels back and forth in her seat, finding plenty of space now that she’s not being held up by Pixie or this mystery boy anymore. “Said I was fine,” she reminds him, in case he’d forgotten. “I’m Harry by the way, don’t think we’ve met.” She sticks her hand out, vibrating it a tiny bit so her shiny bracelets fall the way she wants them to.

“Liam,” says the boy, shaking her hand firmly, “nice to meet you.”

Harry squints at him a bit before deciding that he must just be naturally polite. Fair enough. Harry’s mum always raised her to be nice. “I’m Harry,” she tells him again, “and I’m very drunk, and I’m having a lot of fun! Have you got other friends here? Can I meet them?”

Liam looks bewildered (and, Harry realizes for the first time, very sober). “Won’t your friends want to know where you’re going?” he asks, but Harry’s already out of her seat and heading in a random direction.

“It’s no problem,” she dismisses, “I’m a bit of a free spirit. You know?”

Liam does not look like he knows, but he nods anyway. “I’m here with a couple of mates,” he concedes, “I’ll see if I can find them.”

Harry follows him, stopping every few steps to greet people she recognizes. She’s probably hugged about half the room by the time they find the people they’re looking for, and she feels flushed and happy and she knows she wears it well. There aren’t too many cute boys here, but she could probably still pull if she wants to. Maybe later, then.

“This is Niall,” Liam is saying as Harry tunes back in, “and this is Zayn.” Niall is shockingly blonde and has a wide grin, and Zayn has the loveliest face Harry has ever seen.

Harry introduces herself distractedly, trying not to let her jaw drop. “You’re gorgeous,” she tacks on enthusiastically, because she has no filter when she’s drunk. And also because it’s true. Zayn has eyelashes for days, and Harry might be staring but it’s only because Zayn is so nice to look at.

Zayn laughs a bit, nose scrunching up. “Thank you,” she replies, and Harry is pleased. Zayn must hear this all the time, and she’s still taking the time to answer nicely. Harry is meeting so many polite people tonight.

“Harry knows pretty much everyone here,” Liam tells Niall and Zayn, and Harry waves a hand around in the air.

“Not really,” she protests. “They’re not my mates, really. Just people I’ve met. I like knowing lots of people, you know?” Niall nods enthusiastically, and Harry can see how Niall might be the same way, surrounding himself by people so they can appreciate his brightness. “Nick’s my mate, though. He’s not here tonight. And Louis,” she adds, “don’t know where he went, though. Louis! Lou!” Niall laughs at that. Harry runs a hand through the curls closest to her face; to her delight, she’s shedding glitter all over the floor, and it sparkles in the pulsing light. “Think I need another drink,” muses Harry, and Liam looks alarmed.

Before he can say anything, though, another voice interrupts. “There you are. I thought I heard you yelling for me.”

“This is Louis!” She presents him to the group with a flourish. “Louis, these are my new friends. They’re very nice, and we’re all going to dance once I’ve had another drink.”

Louis laughs and slings an easy arm around her waist. “You definitely don’t need another drink, babe,” he tells her, eyes kind and only a little fuzzy. “We should get back, actually. You know I love a night out, but the crowd’s thinning.”

She looks around and sees that it’s true, the ground littered with empty cups and spilled beer more than it is with people. Part of her wants to whine a bit, stomp her foot and see if Louis will let her stay and hang out with her fun, new friends, but they’ve done this before. The whining and stomping only works with Nick, really. “Fine,” she moans dramatically.

“It was nice to meet you, Harry,” says Niall, “and you, too, Louis. See you ‘round sometime, yeah?”

“Course,” answers Louis amiably, and Harry nods.

“One second,” she tells Louis, holding up a finger right up to his face to make sure he sees it. He quirks an eyebrow, which she takes as permission. She steps forward and takes the flower crown off of herself, placing it over Zayn’s very pretty hair, which is on her very pretty head. “There,” she says, appraising it carefully, “perfect.”

Zayn smiles, tongue poking out the tiniest bit between her teeth. She’s like the sun, thinks Harry nonsensically, hot and bright, and Harry wants to maybe reach out and touch, except Louis is saying goodbye and dragging her away.

Outside, the cool air feels perfect against her heated skin. “Zayn’s like a princess,” she informs him, “she’s soooo pretty.” Her words are dragging out and slurring together, and Louis just agrees with her, indulgent and definitely less drunk than she is. Harry leans a bit against Louis, depending on him not to collapse and send both of them flying toward the pavement. “Y’always hold me up, Lou,” she mumbles gratefully, nosing into the crook of his neck. He smells like alcohol and his cheap cologne and warmth, and it’s almost overwhelmingly familiar.

“I’m not being funny,” he says, which usually means he’s trying to be funny, “but you are proper smashed, love.”

She tucks closer into his side. “Yeah,” she muses, “think I lost count after the third or fourth shot. You’re gonna be covered in glitter tomorrow.”

He flinches when she rubs her hair into his neck, and curses lowly. Harry doesn’t mind much. She’s Louis’ favorite, and also very smug about it. “Kill you tomorrow,” he says darkly, and she giggles into his shoulder.

“M’kay,” she agrees, because it does sound fair, and she loses the rest of the night to a haze of alcohol and exhaustion, realizing only on the very cusp of sleep that she'd completely forgotten about getting someone to take her home.

…

“I’m never drinking again,” moans Harry, throwing an arm across her eyes and curling up deeper into her duvet. “Just leave me here to die.” Her head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton, and she hasn’t even tried to open her eyes yet.

“I could leave you there,” says Louis from the doorway, “or you could get up and make me breakfast before I burn down the flat, maybe.”

Harry groans at him, throwing a pillow in the direction of his voice. “Ten minutes,” she promises, rolling onto her back, and Louis lets her be.

An hour and a half later, she’s showered and changed and eaten, and she feels about fifty times better; Louis always yells at her for getting over hangovers so quickly, jealous sod that he is, and Harry just laughs at him every time. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to get rid of any remaining tangles, and shoulders her bag in the front hall. “I’ll be back later!” she yells, and walks out the door.

It only takes her about three steps before she almost trips and falls flat on her face, which is a new record. 

“Sorry!” shouts the voice of the person Harry almost ran into. She can’t tell who it is because of the box they’re struggling with, but it seems familiar; it’s something about the accent, the lilt of it, that rings a bell. “Sorry, just trying to get moved in. My mates bailed on me last second so m’stuck doing the heavy lifting myself.”

Harry stumbles back as the person with the box starts to lose their grip on it. “That’s-” Harry manages to say, but then she’s on the floor, pinned awkwardly between the wall and the unnaturally heavy box. “-Ouch” she finishes, grinning ruefully and sitting up.

And then she sees the person that dropped the box, and it all comes rushing back to her. “Zayn!” she says, delighted, “We’re going to be neighbors!”

Zayn looks torn between gasping and laughing, which is probably fair - Harry must make quite the sight sprawled out on the ground the way she is, hair in her face and fanning out around her head. “Harry,” she says, and Harry feels a warm flush at being remembered, “hi. Hold on, let me just…” Zayn leans down and grabs the box again, hoisting it up and freeing Harry. “I’m so sorry, I hope I haven’t made you late for anything.” She gestures at Harry’s bag, which in actuality just contains a couple of headbands, her phone, her wallet, and a pouch of dried mangos in case she gets hungry.

“Not at all,” answers Harry, “I was just going for a walk. Do you need any help here?”

Zayn looks hesitant.

“I’ve been told I’m really good at unpacking things,” adds Harry, lying outrageously.

Zayn softens, though she still looks mostly unconvinced. “If you’re sure,” she hedges, corner of her mouth turning down.

“Totally sure,” cuts in Harry, “I promise. Let’s do this.”

Three hours later, Harry is elbow-deep in a box of knick-knacks and has given up all pretenses of making herself useful, instead examining bits of Zayn’s life and asking way too many questions. Zayn, for her part, doesn’t seem to mind where she’s lounged out on the hardwood floor.

Harry throws her hair up into a messy bun and pulls out the biggest thing in the box. Once she’s figured out what it is that she’s holding (and spotted the messy signature in the bottom corner), she looks up, starting to grin. “You painted this? Yourself?”

Zayn shrugs, suddenly shy under the attention, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face, too. “I mean, yeah. It’s just something I like to do.” It looks like a piece of graffiti condensed onto a canvas, splashes of color and slashing lines filling the frame. “I prefer to paint on, like, walls,” offers Zayn, still not quite meeting Harry’s eyes, “but I need to actually buy my own house for that. For now it’s just little pieces like that one.”

“Sick,” enthuses Harry. “I wish I were artsy like this.” She turns the painting sideways and tilts her head, like maybe it’ll give her a new perspective. It’s just so _loud_ , and it’s hard to reconcile that with Zayn’s demure smiles and fluttering eyelashes.

“You can have it.”

Harry blinks once, twice. “Really?”

“I mean,” stumbles Zayn, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “only if you want.” She looks so soft, even with her edgy undercut and the smudge of kohl lining her eyes and the leather jacket hanging over the edge of one of her chairs. 

Harry clutches the painting to her chest. “I want,” she says, and she can feel her grin getting wider and she’s powerless to stop it. “Thank you. I’ll put it in the front hall, like, the entrance. It’s so sick. Everyone’s gonna be trying to buy it off me.” She can feel herself dimpling, knows her eyes must be sparkling, and she plops herself down next to Zayn, close enough that they’re almost touching.

Zayn rolls her eyes and nudges Harry’s shoulder with her own. “You’re so full of shit,” she giggles.

“I’m not!” protests Harry. “And I’m not going to let you win this argument. I’m very persuasive, and charming, and I’m right, so…”

“Anything else?” asks Zayn, droll.

“Well, if you’re going to ask, I’m also quite hungry. This is hard work.” She’s only half joking, really, and the nausea from her hangover has finally disappeared, leaving her more or less ravenous. Plus, she wants to keep hanging out with Zayn. It’s neighborly, right? And Harry is a really friendly person, so it’s only natural that she’d want to spend time with Zayn, a friend. 

Zayn takes the bait, and Harry tries not to cheer too loudly in her head. “There’s a takeaway place just down the street, yeah? We could walk down and bring something back...unless you’re, like, busy. You don’t- I mean, you’ve done a lot already. I don’t want to take up all of your time.”

Zayn pulls her knees in and hugs them to her chest, hooking her chin overtop. Harry wants to hug her, though that’s probably not a surprising urge; she’s rather cuddly, even with people she’s just met. 

“I’m not busy,” insists Harry, “cross my heart, honestly.” She tucks an errant curl behind her ear, pushing it past the slightest bit of perspiration that’s resting on her temple. It’s warm in Zayn’s flat, the day curling into heat as the hours pass, and Harry is starting to feel her skin prickle under her (admittedly very tight) skinny jeans. “Let’s do one more box and then go.”

It’s the least she can offer, really, after hanging about and doing nothing productive in Zayn’s flat on a day Zayn probably needs to be getting quite a bit done. There are half-unpacked boxes lying everywhere, Zayn’s memories covered in Harry’s fingerprints, and if it’s a disaster it’s certainly a pretty one. “One more,” presses Harry, not quite ready to leave, and she looks at Zayn hopefully.

“Let’s do it quick, then,” says Zayn, flicking some hair out of her face, mouth twisting up when a couple of strands get stuck in her eyelashes.

Harry beams and grabs a box at random. It reads “Bedroom” across the side in thick, sharpie-d letters, and she rips off the tape after Zayn gives her the okay. Inside, there really isn’t anything particularly exciting - it’s mostly sheets and pillows, and there’s also a pair of slippers - but Harry looks carefully anyway, inspecting each item and she takes them out and makes sure to keep them properly folded. “Your flat’s just the opposite of mine, right?” she asks, already starting to make her way down the hall.

“Think so,” answers Zayn, “I’ve never been to your flat.”

“Next time we’ll do this at mine, then.”

Zayn makes a face, catching up with Harry and grabbing a throw pillow from where it’d been balancing precariously at the top of the pile. “Next time we’ll unpack my flat at your place? Not sure how well that’d work.”

Harry snorts a laugh, shaking her head. “You know what I mean.”

They walk into the mostly empty bedroom, which contains a bed frame, a mattress, and a night table. “Just toss them on the bed,” says Zayn, perching on the edge of the mattress. She looks almost out of place in her band tee and ripped jeans, combat boots swinging gently over the side of the bed, but Harry can see how it will come together, Zayn’s artwork and superhero posters (which Harry has promised not to mock) filling out all the negative space. 

Harry tosses the sheets on the bed and spreads her arms behind her back, feeling a shoulder pop. “This is hard work,” she says, trying to tease a laugh out of Zayn.

It works, but only barely. “You’ve never worked a day in your life,” Zayn shoots back.

“Hey, you don’t know that,” protests Harry.

Zayn raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe I’ve never worked a day in my life.”

Of course, Zayn laughs at _that_. “C’mon, let’s go get some food. This’ll still be here when we get back.”

Harry acquiesces easily, because she’s been hungry for about an hour now and couldn’t find a polite opening to take out her bag of dried mango. As she turns to leave the room and follow Zayn, a splotch of color in her peripheral vision catches her eye. When she looks at it properly, she sees the flower crown she’d given Zayn the night before resting on the nightstand, the only personal touch in the entire room.

“Harry?” asks Zayn, already halfway down the hall.

“Yeah,” says Harry, distractedly, smiling softly to herself. “Yeah, sorry, coming.”

…

Classes start to pick up that week, and Harry’s easygoing disposition is tested by the fact that she has three papers due on Friday, and she isn’t finished with any of them. It’s just been difficult to focus, is all, what with continuing to get to know Zayn and her friends, and things picking up at the radio station where she’s half-intern, half-radio colleague (which isn’t an official position, no matter how many times Nick tries to convince her that it is). There’s barely a free moment to breathe with everything going on.

She holes herself up in the library and writes feverishly on Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday. By the time Friday rolls around, she’s only still moving because of copious amounts of coffee and lots of pep talks from Louis, who is a good friend despite how much he teases her. 

“You look like a vampire,” says Louis, as Harry walks into the house Friday evening.

She’d argue it, but she probably does look a bit like a vampire. She’s pale even when she does get a bit of sun, and she spend about eighty percent of the week indoors, white as a sheet and drawn and stressed beyond belief. She’s considered naming the bags under her eyes; that’s how prominent they are. “Thanks,” she mumbles drily, collapsing face first onto the couch. Her mascara is probably smearing onto the cushions, and what’s left of her lipgloss must only be adding the mess. She’d care more of she weren’t a split second away from sleep.

Louis flops down next to her, rubbing her back gently. “You’re proper knackered, aren’t you?” he asks with a laugh.

Harry’s eyes shut without her having given them permission to. “You’re the worst,” she slurs through a yawn, whole body feeling heavy and warm.

“I know, love,” he answers indulgently, and then he’s petting her hair a bit and that’s it, that’s all it takes, and she falls asleep.

…

“One song,” begs Harry, fluttering her lashes and trying to look pathetic, “just the one, and then I’ll go get you a coffee or something.”

Nick sighs heavily and spins a bit in his chair. “Your taste in music is atrocious.”

For a moment, Harry is so unspeakably offended that she can’t move, standing with her mouth open and glaring at Nick. “It is not!” she manages to splutter, hands on her hips. “Just because it’s not _all_ typical bubblegum pop-”

“I’ll let you introduce the next one,” Nick interrupts, “if you stop pouting at me like that. Okay, Styles?”

“Fine,” answers Harry, still feeling a bit stubborn, “but next time I’ll play a song.”

Nick just smiles at her cheerfully. They both know that she won’t play a song next time, but Harry isn’t a quitter. And besides, her music is great; she likes popular songs, sure, and she’s not ashamed of that, but wouldn’t kill these listeners to hear something new. It’s not like she listens to Gregorian chants, or something. Maybe if she catches Nick off guard…

Nick snaps in her face to get her attention. “You’re on in thirty seconds. The next song is Shake it Off and they’re listening to the university radio channel one, that’s really all you have to say.”

“I’ve heard you do it enough times,” she responds, “I know what I’m doing.” The song ends, Nick cues, and Harry leans into the mic and says, “Hello, listeners. This is Harry Styles, and Nick Grimshaw is currently naked in the studio! You heard it here first, he’s totally starkers, god, Nick, put that away-”

She’s laughing as Nick drags her bodily away and introduces the song himself. “Don’t know why I ever trust you,” he mutters, just as the song starts to play. “You’re awful.”

“I’m hilarious,” she counters, grinning, and she knows her dimples are out full force. She and Nick shimmy a bit, moving to the beat, and Harry lip syncs the bridge spectacularly.

It’s always like this when she comes into the station, really. She knows she talks too slow for radio, too many uhms and ahs, too much meandering thought, but it’s good for a laugh, and Nick’s so busy with it that this is the best way to spend time with him. Sometimes it’s fun, too, to pretend that she’s a popstar in for an interview, leaning right up into the mic and drawling easily about her life; it’s even better when she can get Nick to indulge her, and they play famous DJ and international superstar during breaks. 

During the last chorus, Nick asks, “Have you seen the video for this song?”

“Yeah,” answers Harry, “she’s fit in it, isn’t she? Just, like, objectively. She’s very pretty.”

Nick turns to her and the look in his eyes is too knowing, makes Harry feel like she’s made of glass, like he can see straight through to her bones. “Oh?” he asks, faux casual, mouth turning up at the corners, eyes sparking.

She crosses her arms for something to do with her hands and fights down the blush creeping up her neck as best she can. Her chest is probably flushing an unfortunate shade of pink under her blouse. “Shut up,” she shoots back, a bit too prickly.

It’s stupid, anyway. Harry has eyes; she can tell when other girls are pretty, and when they’re fit, and when they’re sexy. It’s not like- it isn’t a thing. It’s never been a thing. Not even when Taylor Swift flounces about in a cute little cheerleader skirt and smiles like she has a secret.

Nick raises his eyebrows but lets it go, and Harry tries to put it out of her mind for the rest of the show. It all proceeds as normal, light banter and bouncy music, but the niggling feeling in her stomach doesn’t go away for hours.

...

The next time Harry finds herself in Zayn’s company, it’s because they (along with Louis, Niall, and Liam) are climbing up to the roof of one of the buildings on campus - maybe the Geology building, or the Physics one; Harry is decidedly not a science major, so she isn’t too fussed. As it usually goes, this was Louis’ idea: to sneak up here and have a bit of a chat, just the five of them and a bottle of cheap wine and the stars.

“Bonding,” he’d described it, tugging at a lock of Harry’s hair and laughing when she tried to bat his hand away.

“Breaking and entering,” Harry had shot back, as if they hadn’t done it a million times before.

Louis gave her his patented ‘you’re full of shit’ smile, and began compiling a list of things to bring; after editing down the list (“we’re not bringing fireworks, I don’t even know where we’d get those”) Harry texted the others, and here they are.

Fall is cresting into winter, and the chill is biting. Harry tucks her coat closer to her body and says, with a determined smile, “At least it’s not raining!” She knows she’s tempting fate, with the way the clouds are roiling above them, but she feels light and happy and excited. 

“Way to think positive, Harry,” affirms Liam, patting her only a bit awkwardly on the shoulder. She can barely feel it anyway, through all of the layers, but she’s pleased by the action, little tendrils of acceptance blooming warm under her skin.

Niall hoists himself up the ladder, and then they’re all on the roof, standing in a loose circle.

“Well,” says Louis grandly, brandishing the bottle of wine, cheeks pinked up with the cold, “shall we?” Everyone nods.

So they do.

Half an hour in, Harry feels loose and warm. She knows her smile must be just shy of dopey, dimples peeking out every time she speaks, and it’s not a bad feeling. It really isn’t bad at all, not least because the boys got caught up talking shit about some mutual acquaintance they all seem to hate, and Harry has all of Zayn’s attention to herself. 

It’s maybe a lot to handle at once, though. “When I was younger,” Zayn is saying animatedly, leaning forward, “my family and I used to go on road trips in this van, and like, it was really cool. Good memories, you know. And then I went on a trip in a bread van with Niall and Liam because it was the only car the rental company had left.” She giggles, nose crinkling up, and Harry is maybe going to die.

“I used to work in a bakery,” she offers, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and immediately untucking it. No one knows her until they know she worked in a bakery, really. “We used to make deliveries in the bread vans. It was fun,” she finishes, smiling despite herself. Zayn’s good mood is infectious, and Harry feels like a moth drawn to a flame.

Zayn nods. When she blinks, her eyelashes almost touch her cheekbones, and Harry feels awkward, tongue-tied, long-limbed and graceless. This isn’t even a date (isn’t even _close_ ) and still, it’s the most nervous she’s been in ages. She just wants Zayn to like her more than she likes most other people, and Harry’s usually excellent at making people like her without having to try, but this feels different, for whatever reason. Like she wants Zayn to _like_ her. 

The back of her mind is shouting _you have a crush!_

_No_ , thinks Harry, reprimanding herself, _I’m straight, probably. I can’t be crushing on a girl._

She hadn’t meant to let the 'probably' out from the very deepest caverns of her mind, but pieces keep slotting into place and it’s making her uneasy. Zayn is stunning. Harry must not be the first girl to be having a crisis over her, right?

She tunes back into the conversation just in time for Zayn to start speaking again. “Louis’ lucky,” she says, making a little face that Harry can’t decipher, “to have a girlfriend that’s good in the kitchen, and all.”

Harry’s mind stutters, and then she starts to laugh. “Oh, god, no,” she manages, in between giggles, “no, we’re not. Oh my god,” and she collapses back into laughter. “Louis,” she says, turning around to tap him on the shoulder, because it’s suddenly very important that Zayn knows the truth, “please tell Zayn we’re not dating.”

Louis, predictably, cackles so hard that Harry is afraid he’s going to injure himself somehow. “Don’t worry, Zayn,” he tells her once he’s calmed down, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, “I’m totally single.”

Harry shoves him, rolling her eyes, and Zayn smiles like she’s not totally sure if she’s allowed to. She looks at Liam, hint of uncertainty in her eyes, before settling and turning back to Louis and Harry. “Thank you, but no thank you. Wrong team, and all.”

Harry tamps down on the swell of her heart. It shouldn’t matter; it doesn’t. Everything is just so confusing. Her body doesn’t know how to react to all of this at once.

Louis shrugs, still smiling. “Your loss, then.”

“Yeah, okay,” Zayn shoots back, sarcastic, but the turn of her lips is pleased, “in your dreams, Louis.”

If Harry laughs a little longer than everyone else, she’ll blame the wine. 

They end up lying on their backs and looking up, voices softening as the night closes in on them, and they chat for a bit longer - Harry agrees to sing with Niall at an open mic night, and Louis, Zayn, and Liam make plans to check out a comic book store a few blocks over - before the first roll of thunder startles them.

“Nobody happened to bring an umbrella, did they?” asks Niall, right as the first fat drops of rain start to hit them.

There’s a chorus of no’s, and Harry pulls her beanie tighter over her ears as the wind picks up. The storm comes hard and fast, raindrops illuminated in the weak light, and it would be absolutely stunning if Harry didn’t feel like her bones were genuinely turning into blocks of ice. There’s a moment of perfect stillness, the five of them frozen in time, and then there’s a burst of lightning and they all make for the ladder.

Liam goes first, then Zayn, and Harry follows close behind her. The rungs are old metal and slick with rain, which is why Harry is completely blameless when she slips three from the bottom and nearly brains herself on the concrete below.

“Jesus Christ, Styles,” bites out Zayn, after managing to catch her at the last second, steadying her with hands on her waist.

Harry blinks, disoriented, and looks up, right into Zayn’s beautiful, concerned face. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m a bit clumsy,” and her heart is beating too fast, half fear and adrenaline and half something else entirely.

Zayn’s fingers tighten a little bit, and Harry tries not to move, or breathe, or do anything that would make Zayn let go of her. “Does this happen a lot?” asks Zayn, fondness creeping into her tone.

“Mum always said I was accident prone,” Harry answers, smiling. Zayn smiles back. There’s a moment that’s so fragile Harry’s afraid to breathe and shatter it, their faces close together, Zayn looking at her like Harry is frightening, or lovely, or something she doesn’t know how to handle. Harry wants Zayn to kiss her, and then she thinks, like all the loose parts in her brain tumbling into place at once, _oh_.

A body drops down next to them, and they startle apart. It’s Louis. “Okay there, Hazza?” He says it lightly, but there’s a tiny hint of worry in the furrow between his brows.

“Zayn saved me,” she says, braver and far less shaky than she feels. “My hero.”

Louis laughs, looking between the two of them. “I stopped her from landing on her arse, she means,” says Zayn flatly, but there’s still something soft in her face. Harry still wants to kiss her, to be kissed by her.

Niall finishes climbing down the ladder, and the group gets set to leave, bundled up and soaked through and shivering. It’s a fifteen minute walk to Harry’s and Louis’ flat, as well as Zayn’s, and they split off from Liam and Niall about halfway there.

The walk is quiet, mostly, the three of them forgoing conversation for the sake of focusing on staying warm, hands shoved deep into pockets and heads tucked low against the bracing wind and frigid rain. Harry’s chin is practically touching her chest, beanie pulled over her ears. She thinks her teeth are chattering - at least, she’s pretty sure; she can’t really feel her face to check.

When they finally, blessedly reach the small, covered hallway between the doors to their flats, Zayn starts to curse, patting at her jacket.

“Everything okay?” asks Harry.

After another minute of reaching in and out of various pockets, Zayn looks up miserably. “I don’t think I brought my keys.”

Louis makes a sympathetic sound.

“I’m sure,” continues Zayn, “that Liam would let me stay over, I just...would you mind if I maybe borrowed an umbrella from one of you? It’s about a twenty minute walk, and I don’t fancy making it without one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Harry decisively, “you’re staying with us.”

Zayn’s eyes widen in surprise, like she hadn’t even considered it as an option. “Of course,” says Louis, “you can take the couch, it’s fine.”

There’s a crack of thunder and then a flash of lightning, and Zayn jumps, looking away from the end of the hallway. “If you don’t mind too much,” she tells them, “then that would be amazing, thank you.”

“Don’t be silly,” says Harry, “you let me into your flat, of course you’re welcome in mine.”

“You were helping me unpack,” protests Zayn, as Louis fumbles with the key, “it doesn’t really seem fair.”

Harry just grins. “I was no help at all. I’m terrible at unpacking things.”

“Well…” hedges Zayn, fighting a smile as they walk through the door. Her eyes are alight with mirth and Harry wants her to always be happy, and smiling, and laughing. Harry wants to be the one to keep her happy, and smiling, and laughing, and she desperately hopes that this isn't going to turn into a problem.

She concedes the point gracefully, leaving Zayn in the living room to grab her some blankets and a pillow from the linen closet. “Here,” she says when she returns, handing it all over, “you can shower, too, if you’d like. Bathroom’s down the hall, and there should be an extra towel or two in the cabinets under the sink.”

“Thank you,” says Zayn, “for all of this, really.” She touches Harry’s arm as she says it, so heartbreakingly earnest, and Harry thinks she must be on fire at the point of contact, for the rush of heat it brings.

“Any time,” answers Harry, “anything you need,” and she means it.

Zayn shoots her another smile, puzzled and fond and sweet, and starts walking down the hall.

Harry does not watch her arse as she goes, not even a little bit; Zayn doesn’t have much of an arse to look at anyway.

Not that Harry would know.

…

It takes her two more weeks to crack and talk to Louis.

In the grand scheme of things, that isn’t really very long at all, but it’s the longest she’s ever kept a secret from him, and it’s made her antsy. She knows he’ll be wonderful about it, because he’s Louis, and for all his antics he also knows how to have a serious conversation, but it doesn’t mean she’s any less nervous.

She’d spent the time getting settled with it, exploring her sexuality in retrospect as best she could. In hindsight, the signs are so obvious they’re almost laughable, and she wonders if Louis will tell her he knew already, or if her mum will. If everyone knew she was bisexual before she did. If it matters.

This will be the first time she’s said it out loud, and it feels momentous.

“Right,” she says, picking at a stray thread on the sofa, “sorry, I’m just, like, trying to figure out where to start. Thinking. You know.”

Louis nods, all soft eyes and patient smile. “Try not to hurt yourself,” he quips, but there’s no heat behind it.

It’s perfectly quiet, apart from the drizzle of rain against the windows. She nods to herself once, almost businesslike, and clasps her hands together in her lap so she stops fidgeting. “Over the past, like, month,” she says, keeping her eyes down, “I’ve realized some things. About myself.”

“Yeah?” prompts Louis, when she doesn’t elaborate right away.

“Yeah,” she answers, “I like girls. Also,” she rushes to add, because it didn’t take her long at all to be sure that she is still very much attracted to boys. “I like girls, also. I’m bi.”

She holds her breath.

“Harry,” says Louis, gentle as anything, “can you look at me?”

“Rather not,” she admits quietly.

Louis shifts a tiny bit closer. “Haz. C’mere.”

She sneaks a glance at his face, and he’s smiling. He’s holding his arms out, too, and Harry scoots closer and falls into them; she’s never been able to resist a good hug, and she’s so relieved she could cry.

They don’t say anything for a long moment, and then Louis asks her, quietly, if she’s alright.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding into his shoulder, only just realizing that her eyes are a bit wet, “I’m good.”

He kisses her on the temple before sitting back on the couch. “I’m glad you told me,” he says, careful like he’s picking out his words before he says them. It’s uncharacteristic, and very sweet. Her heart feels warm and wobbly. “Does your family know yet?”

She shakes her head. “You’re the first. Gemma’s my next call.” She surreptitiously wipes a few stray tears away from under her eyes, laughing wetly at herself. “Don’t know why I’m crying,” she says, apologetic even though she knows she doesn’t need to be; Louis has seen much worse from her, and she from him.

“Big moment,” he tells her, and then, just to be cheeky, adds, “your dating pool just doubled in size, I’m sure it’s a lot to take in. It’s okay to be emotional about it.”

She shoves at him before shuffling closer and leaning into his side, head on his shoulder. “Dick,” she says, fake pouting, just to be contrary. He slings an arm around her and shifts until they’re both comfortable, tucked together the way they have been so many times before.

“Did anything in particular make you realize?” He’s petting her hair while he asks, which is cheating because he knows how easy she is for it.

“A bunch of things, actually, I think. But, like.” She pauses, gathers her courage. “Uh, Zayn,” she says, ducking her head a little bit. She is, embarrassingly enough, blushing. She’s been blushing a lot lately, considering how shameless she usually is. “She just- yeah, Zayn.”

She feels more than sees Louis nod. “I mean, she is on a whole other level of fit. You always had good taste, Styles, I’ll give you that.”

She’d shove at him again, but she’s too comfortable to move. “She’s nice,” Harry protests, “and fun to talk to. I just want to like, hold her hand, and make her smile.”

“Awwww,” teases Louis, “you’ve got it bad, haven’t you? That’s so cute and boring. Maybe Zayn will make an honest woman out of you.”

“Ugh,” groans Harry, “you’re the worst. I still wanna shag her brains out. I just also want the cute, boring stuff.”

Louis hums, and she can tell he’s smiling. “Ah, there’s the Harry I know and love.” She’d smack him if he didn’t sound so fond.

“Yeah, well, I’d still have to get her to want to shag me back.” Harry doesn’t mention that that part is probably her own fault, since she’s pretty much incapable of using her flirting techniques on Zayn, struck stupid by Zayn’s sheer presence.

Louis laughs at her, which is rather rude. She’s used to it, of course, but she pouts anyway until he starts talking. “You do realize that half the time she looks at you with heart eyes, and the other half she looks like she wants to eat you, right?”

Harry blinks slowly. “You’re having me on,” she says, but there’s a thread of hope already growing. “She never said.”

“She probably thinks you’re straight,” explains Louis, like it’s obvious, and oh, maybe it should be.

“Right,” she answers, thinking it over, "maybe," and then she shifts away, sitting up. “I need to call my sister, and my mum, and Nick, but let’s do something after?” She doesn’t mean to make it into a question, but she still feels curiously fragile and emotionally drained, and she imagines it’ll be worse after the rest of the afternoon, even if every conversation ends up feeling as safe as this one did.

Louis shoots her a small, sweet smile, the kind he so rarely gives anyone, usually too caught up in jest and bravado to bother being genuine. “Yeah, of course.”

She hugs him again on impulse, short and tight and grateful. “Okay. I’m gonna go, then.” She gestures lamely at her room. “Thank you.”

“I’m here if you need me,” he says, “love you.”

“Love you, too,” she answers easily, “love you lots,” and she goes to her room to make some phone calls.

…

She ends up FaceTiming Gemma, who is home for an old friend’s wedding this weekend, and catches her mum at the same time, the two of their faces squished together to see the screen. They’re sweet, tell her they love her no matter what and they’re proud of her and she’s so, so brave, and Harry sniffles a lot and pretends she isn’t crying, and tells them she loves them back.

Nick offers up the radio for a proclamation of love if she wants to go that route, and she laughs so hard her voice almost gives out. (She also considers it for about five seconds, but she’d never admit it.)

By the end of it all, when she’s curled up on the couch with Louis watching a film and eating takeout from that little Chinese place they discovered their first week here, she feels so full up on love that she could burst.

…

Three days later, Harry is lying on her stomach, feet kicking lazily in the air, and she’s trying not to die of fume inhalation. Zayn offered her a mask earlier, but Harry is wearing her favorite matte lipstick and maybe was hoping she’d end up needing her lips accessible later. For whatever reason. Possibly.

For now, though, it’s just Harry and her phone and the paint fumes.

And Zayn, of course, but Zayn gets her own category. Harry steals glances, occasionally, out of the corner of her eye (looking at Zayn head-on can feel like staring at the sun, sometimes), and when she’s caught, she glances back at her phone and types a jumble of letters, sending them to Louis without bothering to explain. There’s a 50/50 chance Louis will send back gibberish, too, which is what Harry’s hoping for.

Thankfully, Louis comes through for her. Harry cracks a smile at _ifbndkn idfk eeeeh?_ and sets about crafting an equally incomprehensible answer. Harry is really good at incomprehensible, especially in Zayn’s presence.

“Aren’t you miss popular,” observes Zayn without looking up, and her tone is bright but her face gives away nothing.

Harry shrugs and keeps kicking her feet. “Hardly counts if it’s just Louis.”

“What, so you haven’t got a secret boyfriend?” Zayn asks, spray painting another line on the canvas that's propped up against the wall. Harry can tell Zayn’s teasing (at least, it sounds like teasing), but she’s never been one to waste opportunities.

She flops over until she’s on her back, and it’s less graceful than she’d hoped to be, but it does let her spread her arms out wide, tips of her fingers brushing Zayn’s knee. “Nope. Just me,” she laments, acting put-upon, “all by myself. Single and waiting for someone to sweep my off my feet.” _You, preferably_ , her mind adds helpfully, but it feels like poking at a bruise, or staring down from the top of the high dive, all dizzying height.

Zayn laughs quietly under her breath like she’s not quite sure what to make of it. She’s not the only one. Regardless, Harry beams, because she will never regret anything that makes Zayn laugh. “Join the club,” she says, tone wry, and Harry’s heart skips several beats.

“Is that an invitation?” Harry presses, because she’s nothing if not a terrible flirt. It’d be more effective if Zayn looked her in the eye (Harry has a wicked smirk, when she gets the chance to use it), but it’s still tilted with plenty of suggestion all the same.

Zayn just shakes her head, still smiling, and a bit of hair falls from her ponytail to frame her face. “You’re something else, Styles,” she says, picking up the red paint can and shaking it in her hand.

“Well,” Harry shoots back, heart pounding in her chest, “I haven’t got a secret girlfriend, either. So I do what I can.” She keeps her tone light and casual, like she didn’t just come out in a single breath, but Zayn barely misses a beat.

“Fair point,” she answers, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. She’s smiling a bit, and it’s surprisingly goofy for someone with such impeccable bone structure. Harry genuinely can’t tell if they’re flirting, but her heart is fluttery and she can’t help returning Zayn’s smile with a full-forced, dimpling grin. 

“Thanks,” she answers, quiet, looking down and still smiling like an idiot, and it’s not quite the right sentiment but it’ll have to do. “Do you mind if I play some music?”

Zayn waves a hand toward Harry's phone, fingers trailing like an ellipsis. “Go for it.”

Harry agonizes for longer than she should over what to play, and ultimately just puts all of her music on shuffle. They get through a couple of songs peacefully, Cage the Elephant closely followed by Passion Pit, and Harry hums quietly along while Zayn paints. Harry’s traitor mind thinks _if we were girlfriends, we’d probably do this all the time, just hanging out, except with more kissing_ , and it's a torturously wonderful thought.

Then the song shifts, and Harry lights up. “I love this song,” she enthuses, singing along with Lana del Rey. “Come on, you have to sing with me, it’s a rule.” It’s _This is What Makes Us Girls_ , it’s practically sacred.

Zayn lifts one perfect eyebrow. “Is it now?”

“Of course,” answers Harry, and starts to sing again, inching closer and closer to Zayn as she does, doing a ridiculous dance. “Come on,” she pleads, making doe eyes at Zayn. “Please?”

Zayn crumbles, and Harry beams. The two of them sing together, giggling as they do. Harry makes a ridiculous faux-seductive face at _screaming get us while we’re hot, get us while we’re hot_ , and Zayn winks outrageously. And then Zayn takes off her mask and puts the paint can down, and it starts to get charged. They’re still close together, Harry having crawled over on hands and knees until they were face to face.

And it’s still fun and fine and great, and then they sing _don’t cry about him, don’t cry about him, it’s all gonna happen_ , and they’re looking right at each other, and neither of them are smiling anymore. All of the breath that's supposed to be in Harry’s lungs is caught in her throat. It would be so easy to lean in, to kiss every bit of hesitance from Zayn’s mouth, to cup her cheek in Harry’s hand, to wind a hand through her hair, to snog lazily to this song that feels infinite-

Zayn leans back, blinking quickly. “Um,” she says, obviously flustered, like she’s woken from a trance; she grabs her mask and puts it back on, turning back to her painting, tips of her ears red.

Harry sits where she is for a moment, willing her heart rate down, and turns back to her phone. _Zayn is going to kill me_ , she types carefully, and sends it.

It only takes Louis a few seconds to answer. _Ask her if she needs help burying the body_ , he replies.

 _I really like her_ , she sends back, refusing to dignify his treachery with a response, _I like her so much_. Her heart feels like a live wire. Next to her, Zayn is focused, tongue poking out her mouth, the rush of paint the only sound in the room. Harry doesn’t know why Zayn didn’t try to kiss her or let herself be kissed, only that it aches in the quietest parts of her, in the soft bits that bruise easily.

 _Oh, love_ , texts Louis, and it’s sweet but it doesn’t help any.

Harry stays an hour longer, hoping, but even she knows when to admit defeat. Once it's evident that Zayn won't look up again, she says a quick goodbye, grabs her things, and goes.

…

That night, Nick calls her. “Come out tonight!” he orders, “You haven’t been out with us in forever, it’ll be fun.” Harry dithers, and then Nick says, “You can pick up a cute girl,” and it starts to sound like the perfect way to shed the hurt. It’s been so long since she’s been properly out, tipsy and dancing and laughing, and she really could use the fun.

“I have some cookies in the oven,” she says, “but I’ll be ready if you want to pick me up in an hour.” A night out sounds much better than stress baking, if she’s being honest.

Nick cheers and promises to be there in an hour sharp, which means she has about an hour and a half to get ready. 

Harry takes the cookies out of the oven and then sets about picking an outfit. She ends up picking her favorite crop top and a skirt that makes her legs look a mile long; if Louis were here, he’d call her a slag, but he’s not, and that’s the look she’s going for anyway. She wears more mascara than usual, practices her sex eyes in the mirror (she’s still got it, thankfully), and declares herself ready.

Twenty minutes later, Nick is knocking at her door, and she throws it open with a flourish. “Tell me how fit I look,” she demands.

“Very fit,” answers Nick, indulging her. “Ten out of ten, would shag.” He wouldn’t, but she appreciates it anyway. She decides that he’s her new favorite, and even lets him pick the music on the way to the club.

By the time they arrive, she’s basically vibrating. The entire radio crew is there, already a few drinks in by the looks of it, and they welcome Harry with open arms, telling her how they missed her and of course she’ll pull tonight if she wants to, she looks amazing. Harry gives herself some time to bask in the attention, and then orders her first drink, a fruity pink concoction that turns out to be absolutely delicious.

The second one goes down in the midst of a giddy conversation about summer plans - Harry will stay in the flat with Louis trying to get a job and exploring the city, and the others have fun vacation destination plans - and the third drink is a tequila shot that burns as it slips down her throat.

She hits the dance floor after drink number four, limbs loose and grin wide. She grinds on a fit boy with gorgeous eyes and shoots a filthy smirk at the first girl she sees that seems up for a bit of snogging, feeling reckless and eager and desired. (The girl does happen to be up for a bit of snogging, as it turns out.)

With her arms thrown over her head, face flushed with alcohol, she feels absolutely limitless. _Zayn who?_ she thinks, almost hysterically, and then she doesn’t think about Zayn at all.

“Harry!” shouts Aimee, waving her over, “Nick’s buying a round!” And who is Harry to turn down a free drink?

Between her fifth and sixth shots, the night gets very, very fuzzy.

…

She wakes up in an unfamiliar bed with a miserable headache and no clothes on. To her left, a blonde girl with sweet, dainty features is fast asleep.

Right, so she pulled a girl.

Harry scrubs a hand over her face, exhausted, and sits up. She’s still wearing her panties, but her bra is draped over the back of a desk chair, and her top and skirt are strewn messily across the floor. She rolls out of the bed by sheer force of will, gathering her things in her arms and moving to the bathroom to change.

She brushes her teeth with her finger and a bit of stolen toothpaste and splashes some water on her face, feeling significantly more human once she walks out. The girl is sitting up in bed, yawning.

“Hi,” says Harry, “so this is embarrassing, but I don’t remember your name.”

The girl giggles. “Thank god,” she answers, “because I don’t remember yours, either. I’m Heather.”

Harry smiles back, relieved. “Harry,” she answers, and only just stops herself from adding a 'nice to meet you,' that would only serve to make things horribly awkward. Her instincts are too polite for her own good, sometimes.

“Do you want to stay for breakfast?” asks Heather.

In another world, Harry says yes. She can see it so clearly, a one night stand turned something more. Heather seems sweet and charming, and she’s gorgeous, and they must be sexually compatible considering how sore Harry’s thighs are. It could be good.

In this world, Harry can’t stop wishing she’d woken up with someone else, and she smiles apologetically. “I should really go.”

Heather, to her credit, is perfectly understanding. “Yeah, of course. Do you need the address?”

Harry answers that yes, she does, and she enters it into her phone, shooting off a text in her most recent conversation, which was with Louis.

Except, she realizes a half-second later, once it’s too late, her last conversation was not with Louis, because she texted Zayn last night while she was completely wasted. It’s a beautiful relief to see that she didn’t send anything too embarrassing, just things along the line of _you’re soooo pretty !!!!!!_ and _so gla d we r friedns Zaynie_ ; she’s done worse in the past, at least. The real concern is that she just sent _help accidentally slept w someone can u come pick me up_ and attached the address.

Zayn responds _yeah, be there in ten_ and Harry is more than a bit mortified.

She and Heather chat for a bit while waiting for Zayn, and it’s impressively normal for a post-one night stand conversation. Harry finds herself almost wishing this had happened two months prior, but only almost.

Zayn, bless her, is on time for once in her life, and Harry kisses Heather on the cheek and says goodbye, flitting out the front door in last night’s clothes and smeared makeup.

“Hi,” she says as she opens the door, “thank you so much for coming. I meant to text Louis and got it mixed up.”

Zayn shrugs easily, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “I owed you one, anyway.”

They’re mostly quiet for the drive over, Harry still nursing a hangover and Zayn keeping her eyes on the road, and Harry wants to break the silence more than anything but she can’t figure out what to say.

Zayn does it for her, in the end. “Seems like you had fun last night.”

It’s light, easy, but there’s an undercurrent of steel that Harry wasn’t expecting. It’s adding up slowly: the tense line of Zayn’s shoulders, the bitter in her tone, how she won’t meet Harry’s eyes. Harry is hesitant to hope, but if Zayn is as jealous as she seems….

Harry shrugs. “It was okay,” she answers, and has to stop herself from adding _I kept wishing it was you_. It’s too true, too raw, too easy to shoot down. Harry is no coward, but this is too much to ask of herself, at least for now.

They pull up to the building, and the walk to the flats is silent. Harry knows she broke something, but she isn’t sure how to fix it, so she doesn’t. “Thank you,” she says, just one more time, before turning and walking into her flat, hoping Zayn will stop her, will _do_ something.

“You’re welcome,” says Zayn, but she doesn’t turn around.

…

The next morning, Harry wakes up determined.

She can’t do the wishy-washy will-they-won’t-they, not anymore. She’s never been any good at the in between, and she’s done with it. Even brutal rejection would be better than this. Mind made up, she showers quickly and ties her hair up in a scarf right after, donning her lucky jeans and a blouse that Zayn once told her matched her eyes.

Louis catches her panicking in the kitchen, trying to decide how many cookies is too many. “Alright?” he asks, clearly amused.

“I need to win Zayn’s heart,” she says, “and I don’t know how many cookies to bring.”

“Planning to bribe her with dessert? Brilliant.”

“It’s not a bribe,” argues Harry, even though it totally is, “do you think I should just bring the whole plate?”

He grabs one and takes a bite, and then grabs two more, wrapping them in a napkin. “There you go,” he says, pushing the plate back toward her, “take those.”

“Right,” she says, “okay, I’m going.” A pause. “God, what if she says no?”

“She’d be a fool to,” says Louis, fierce, “but she won’t. Go on,” he adds, when Harry makes no move to leave the kitchen, “go get your girl.”

Harry rolls her eyes, but goes.

Her resolve lasts until she’s standing right outside of Zayn’s door, poised to knock. Once she’s there, it’s like her brain has decided to play a slideshow of all the ways this could go horribly wrong. She’s halfway to convincing herself to turn around when she hears footsteps behind her.

“Did you need something?” asks Zayn, not unkindly, swinging her car keys around her finger and adjusting her backpack where it hangs off of one shoulder. She must just be getting back from class.

And okay, Zayn is right here. Hell if Harry is backing down now. “Wanted to talk to you, if that’s okay,” she says, much calmer than she feels. “I brought cookies,” she adds, holding them out like a peace offering.

“Sick,” says Zayn, smiling, and the coldness from yesterday is nowhere to be found. Harry relaxes a bit, letting herself breathe.

She stalls once they get inside, snacking on cookies with Zayn and making small talk about classes, but she can only chat about her Russian Lit class for so long before she starts boring even herself.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” asks Zayn, and it’s too perfect an opening not to take.

Harry steels herself, nerves crawling through her. “I stress baked those cookies a couple nights ago,” she starts, “because I thought we were going to kiss and we didn’t.” She’s talking faster than usual, and she nearly trips over her words as she continues. “And I really wanted to. For us to kiss, I mean. I really, really like you. And then you seemed upset when you picked me up yesterday, but the whole time I was with her I was thinking about you. And you said I would be a girlfriend that’s good in the kitchen, and I could be that. For you. If you wanted.”

She can’t look at Zayn, can hardly breathe. “Oh,” says Zayn, clearly aiming for neutral and missing by a mile, “I didn’t- really?”

“Really,” answers Harry, focusing very hard on not freaking out. It’s one thing to figure that, based on her observations, Zayn wants this, too, but it’s another thing entirely to think that that makes things easy.

“I didn’t know,” says Zayn, quiet, almost awed, like she’d hoped, too. “I don’t know if we should...like, it might be better if we don’t-”

Harry swallows hard. “Why not?”

“It just might not be a good idea, like-”

“Why did you keep the flower crown?” Harry interrupts, heart pounding in her chest, words bubbling up and impossible to stop, “That first night, why did you keep it?” She finally looks up, dares herself to stare Zayn in the eyes. She’s not a coward; she won’t be, not now, not when it matters this much.

Zayn is frozen in place, eyes wide. “I-” she starts, and cuts herself off, so obviously conflicted.

Dread pools in Harry’s stomach. She pushes on anyway, summoning all the bravery she has. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong, if you don’t want this. I need you to tell me, because I don’t understand.”

“I can’t date a straight girl!” Zayn bursts out, finally showing something other than shock or calm collection, “I can’t be your experiment, Harry. I’ve done it before, and it’s not fun when you change your mind.”

“I’m not straight,” Harry answers flatly, hurt. “This isn’t just a phase, that’s not fair of you to say.”

Zayn has the decency to look ashamed of herself, immediately backtracking. “Shit, I know, I’m sorry, I just...it’s hard for me. To trust people, I mean.”

“You’re not an experiment,” says Harry, “I swear, I’m all in if you are. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, it’s not just on a whim.”

Zayn reaches up to drag a hand through her hair. “I need you to be sure,” she begs, imploring, and Harry wants to kill anyone who ever hurt this girl. 

Harry might be a bit of a flight risk, always full of wanderlust, thumbing through people’s lives and leaving fingerprints everywhere, but Zayn makes her want to stay put. She’s never been so sure of anything in her life. “I’m choosing _you_ , Zayn. I promise you. I want to snog the hell out of you, and introduce you to my mum, and go on lots of stupid dates, and watch you paint even though I don't know the first thing about art. I want all of that.” Zayn looks struck dumb, and Harry smiles, sheepish. “Too much?”

“No,” says Zayn, laughing a little, “no, it was just enough, I think.”

Harry finally, finally lets herself smile. “Yeah?”

“I want that, too. All of it.”

They must look like idiots, standing across from each other and beaming. “You sure?” asks Harry, only half teasing, but hope is blooming in her chest and it’s so, so warm.

“Promise,” answers Zayn, pretending to cross her heart, and she’s such a dork, and Harry is so, so endeared. “The snogging the hell out of me, is that offer still on the table?”

“Always,” says Harry, stepping forward, and thinks _finally, finally, finally_ , steady like the beat of her heart. Zayn steps forward, too, eyes sparkling like she’s thinking the very same thing.

Outside, the sun is shining brightly, rain a distant memory. The light is spilling through every window, painting everything in shades of gold, and Harry and Zayn meet in the middle.

**Author's Note:**

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